


Mad World

by Sophia_Bee



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Language, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan walks in on Veronica and Logan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad World

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly I like this song because many years later I'd unwittingly use this title for an epic Dair AU.

You like the way his fingers feel as they slide across your heated skin, which is why you don’t tell him to stop. You just moan and your head falls back and you hiss his name.

“Logan.”

You’ve dreamed of this, twisted sheets, when you wake up sweaty and disoriented and you’re not sure where you are. It takes a while for the forms in the room to come into focus, for you to hear the breathing of the Duncan as he sleeps next to you.

“Please.”

It never should have happened. You came in late and Duncan wasn’t there and Logan was sitting on the couch. There was something about the look on his face as you stood across the room. Something that sparked white hot in his eyes and you knew yours were sparking back. It took three steps to cross the room, three long seconds before his lips crushed yours, before your hands tangled in his hair and pulled him against you.

It was like the first time, on the balcony, when everything sparkled and glittered as his face came closer and you knew this was everything you’d ever wanted and nothing you’d ever dreamed of.

“Fuck me.”

His hands are on the button on your jeans and you smile when they shake a little and he fumbles, motherfucker. Or was that third wife fucker, because you didn’t think Kendall Casablancas would actually qualify to be a mother. You brush his hands away and undo the button yourself. No time for juvenile fumbling and awkward moments. You passed that a long time ago when you watched Duncan as he held himself above you, watched his face as it scrunched up, watched his jaw go slack and you wondered why it all seemed miles away. You push your jeans down your hips and step out of them. This time you’re present.

“Veronica.”

Your name is a prayer on his lips, a fulfillment of a dream, a plea. You know it’s not the first time he’s said it this way. You picture him, dick hot and hard in his hand as he lies in bed, hand sliding up and down. You smile.

He pushes you backwards and backwards until the back of your calves hit the smooth leather of the bland palatable hotel couch. You hate it here. You hate the faux oil panting on the wall of lush landscapes and city scenes. You hate the patterned comforter that won’t show stains. You hate the little soaps that someone leaves each day and the fucking mints sitting on the crisp white cotton sheets.

Reality is hard to grasp. It slips away from you, flutters on the edges of your consciousness. They only thing you know is real is the feel of Logan’s lips as they slide up the column of your neck, the way his teeth nip at your earlobe, his breath hot against your ear as he moans because your hands have found their way down his pants.

“Fuck.”

Logan mutters the expletive at the very moment your brain thinks it. You smile, more evidence that you don’t exist in a state of neutrality. All notions of neutrality were washed away the moment your hands reached around and pulled him hard against you as you asked him to make you scream; because you need to scream.

You feel the cold leather of the couch against your bare skin. Somewhere between the doorway and the furniture you’ve lost your punky little t-shirt and your bra. You don’t care because Logan’s mouth is on your breast; his tongue lapping across your nipple and all semblance of thought has fled your muddled brain. Somewhere between Duncan and Logan and Lilly and the whole fucked up world you lost your mind. Because if you had any state of mind you wouldn’t be grinding your hips against Logan’s hard dick, wouldn’t be muttering his name over and over again, wouldn’t be kissing him like he was air and pain and everything you need to live all rolled into one perfectly fucked up package. If you had any presence of mind you wouldn’t be spreading your legs and telling him to fuck you hard, you wouldn’t be raking your fingernails and moaning in his ear, his muscles tensing with every breathy pant you let out.

You wouldn’t be loving every single moment.

“Bitch.” Logan spits from between clenched teeth.

“Jackass.” You hiss back and kiss him again, hard, grinding, until you taste blood. Yours. His. It doesn’t matter.

He flips you over and your cheek is pressed into the cream imported leather, hot and dirty couch sex fills your head, the smell of sweat fills the room. You know what’s next and you bite your lip as he slides inside you, his fingers gripping hard at your hips and you know there will be bruises in the morning. You smile, lick your lips, push back hard against him. It’s everything you ever wanted, ever dreamed of, and so much more.

There are no candles, no soft music, no fucking rose petals scattered on satin sheets. Just your face press into the couch and Logan fucking you from behind, grunting, sweat dripping down onto your bare back, then his hand comes around front and his fingers find the slick hotness that makes you bite your lip and almost scream his name.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

You feel it coming, the tightening, the dirty white-hot heat that builds from your belly and creeps along your limbs. You feel the shaking start, the tight coiling that builds until everything shatters. You take in a deep breath, try to hold it back until it grabs you and won’t let you go. You open your eyes and everything stops.

Duncan.

He’s standing in the doorway, staring at you as Logan fucks you. Suddenly you feel cheap and dirty and sluttish and you wonder if this was how your mother felt when your dad found out she’d been fucking Jake Kane in the Camelot on Sunday afternoons when he was out of town. A hot blush creeps up your cheeks and you push against Logan who is jerking against you, and you feel pissed off because at least he got a fucking orgasm. You wonder what the fuck is wrong with you.

“What the hell?”

You feel Logan freeze behind you at the sound of Duncan’s voice in the room and you know that he’s finally opened his eyes to see his best friend standing, staring at both of you. You allow yourself a moment to picture what his face must have looked like as he came. You picture that glazed look, the ecstasy, the moment of release, and it makes you feel hot and bothered, and you forget for a moment that your boyfriend has been watching his best friend fuck you on his couch.

You jump off the couch, stand naked in the middle of the room, exposed down to your core. You want to tell him that there’s an explanation as you grope around clumsily for your clothes, but you know that he doesn’t want to hear the explanation and you aren’t sure if you want to hear it either.

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice is shaking. It sounds far away, like its someone else’s voice, someone else’s life and you’re just an observer. You wonder if you could turn and walk away, leave this other girl to deal with betrayal and infidelity and the pain she’s caused. Because you don’t want it, you never wanted it.

Except you know that’s a lie too because you wanted it more than anything you’ve ever wanted in your entire life. More than you wanted your mother to be a mother and not a fucked-up boozehound. More than you wanted your best friend to stop being dead. More than you wanted your first boyfriend back, along with all the wonder that comes with first love. You wanted it all: wanted his fingers to touch you; wanted his lips on yours; his tongue to trace its way across your collarbone; his hip to press into your, his thigh to slip between yours.

Because maybe then you could stop dreaming about him, stop waking in the middle of the night with his name on his lips. Maybe if you took what you wanted you would cleanse yourself of Logan and everything that he promised.

You’ve become a good liar.

Duncan is screaming, his face is red and scrunched up and you’re having a hard time hearing his words over the loud beating of your heart. Your holding something to cover yourself, you’re not even sure exactly what you grabbed, maybe your t-shirt, maybe a blanket from the now-notorious couch.

You feel Logan’s hand on your shoulder and his touch anchors you. You hear his voice as he tells Duncan that he loves you and you want to turn and scream at him too because you’re not sure if your ready for that. Loving Logan, Logan loving you, there is a price that you haven’t agreed to pay and now he’s making that decision for you.

“Stop it!”

Your voice his hoarse, choked with tears and you realize that you’ve been crying. Duncan and Logan turn to you, their eyes taking in your slight, shaking figure. You wish you could be more dignified at this moment, stand tall, look them in the eye, be strong. Instead you scream and you feel your nose start to run and your eyes are puffy and stinging from your own tears, your makeup is streaked down your cheeks.

You don’t remember everything you say. All you know if that you have to get out, have to leave the insanity behind you. You wrap the blanket around you and try to find your car keys. You find a porcelain faux Ming dynasty vase instead and you like the sound as it shatters against the hard marble floor, the way Duncan actually looks afraid of you. Finally your hands close around the familiar weight of your keys and you grip them tightly, feeling them dig into your palm. Then you’re out the door, running down the hall, pushing into the stairwell behind you.

You hear steps behind you.

You can’t breath, you’re crying so hard. Everything that you’ve been holding back comes screaming out in a torrent of rage and sorrow that you don’t seem to be able to stop. You hold tight to the railing of the dank stairwell, the walls flickering from a neon light that’s threatening to go out.

Round and round and round. The footsteps are still behind you. You think you hear your name but you’re not sure. You don’t care. You miss a few steps, stumble, slip, your hand stops your fall, it hurts, you gasp, then you scramble back up and keep going down. Round and round and round.

Finally you push through a door and out into the alley next to the Neptune Grand. The air is damp, one of the increasingly common Southern California rains thanks to global warming. You look to your left. There’s a green dumpster overflowing with the day’s trash, a brick wall with some graffiti sprayed on it, a skinny alley cat startled by your sudden entrance, skittering into the shadows. You look to your right. The street. Cars whiz by, their lights shining off the wet pavement, their wheels making hissing sound as they cut through puddles. Suddenly you can’t move. You lean against the wall, cement cold against your bare back. You’re not crying anymore. There aren’t any tears left. Just sharp, jagged pain that digs into the place your heart should be.

“Veronica?”

He’s next to you, his hand on your shoulder and you don’t remember him coming through the door. You look up at him, into eyes full of worry and concern. It’s almost enough to break your heart. If you had any heart left to break.

“I’m sorry.” You somehow manage to sob.

You say it over and over even though you’re not even sure what your sorry for but they’re the only words you can find as you stand the dirty alley. You say it until it becomes meaningless sounds spilling from your mouth. And even then you’re still not sure if you really are. Sorry.

“Let it go, let it go.”

The tears are back, leaking from your eyes, sliding down your cheeks, and you taste salt.

“We can’t…not now…now ever…”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Logan’s arms are around you now and you lean into him, let yourself inhale his scent, memorize him because you know the answer to your own question.

“Nothing’s enough.”

_fin_


End file.
